Perhaps the tattoo was on her…her…good God…her hip? Her belly? Lower yet?
Ian shuddered violently, the mere thought of a hidden tattoo on the woman’s body making him quake inside.
Stop! Stop it right this second!
With one last tremor ripping through him, he regained control and pulled himself together. Maintain control.
So he filled his plate and set it on the table, then poured the hot water into the teapot, swished it around, emptied it into the sink, and proceeded to prepare tea for them all the proper, British way. No doubt this American used tea bags at home, but he wouldn’t allow that in his domain.
The American woman had changed into the same costume she had worn on the aeroplane, he noticed. Different jumper, perhaps. Ah, yes, Imp had said something about her not having any luggage. That explained her being seen in Mrs. Duxbury’s dressing gown earlier.
When they were all finally seated around the old, scarred table, where the servants had taken their meals in days gone by, Ian felt his sister’s foot pressing down on the top of his underneath the table. When he scowled at her, Tish gave him her encouraging nods, then jerked her head slightly in the direction of the American.
“Miss Porter, I must apologize for my behavior earlier. I mistook you at first for Mrs. Duxbury…from behind. I haven’t been home in quite some time…wasn’t aware of my sister’s arrangements. Sorry and all that,” he said, hoping the woman wouldn’t want or expect anything more.
Abby put down her fork, patted her lips with her napkin, and replied, “I accept.”
Then she turned away from him and started talking with his sister. Ian felt as if he’d been hit by a lorry. That was it? I accept? That was all she had to say, that she accepted his apology, as if he had been in the wrong?
He couldn’t believe that he had allowed this woman to treat his apology this way. He’d apologized, she was supposed to apologize back, they’d be even, and he could leave. Instead, she sat across the table from him, chatting with the imp and patently ignoring him!
When he looked down at his plate, he realized he had eaten everything. Although he couldn’t quite remember what he’d consumed, it hadn’t been bad. It had been a regular English breakfast, just like Duckie would have made. So, the woman could cook.
She didn’t look at him. Instead, she sat directly across from him and discussed what she and his sister would do for the rest of the day.
Then they discussed her plans for dinner. His mouth watered despite his effort to control his reaction. Beef en croute. New potatoes. Asparagus tips.
Imp and the American carried their plates to the counter.
He found himself following them, looking for another helping. Duckie always had extra food for him.
Both women turned when he helped himself to more eggs and a sausage or two, then ignored him as they cleaned up the mess. The day help would do the rest. The American—Abigail—made a list of foodstuff for John to pick up in the village before they came back from Bath.
Bath!
Then, without so much as another word from either of them, off they went.
Chapter 5
The drive to Bath was great. The English countryside offered up picture postcard scenery with new green grass covering rolling hills. Rain fell gently on the windscreen of the Vauxhall. Cows grazed placidly in the quilt-like fields that were framed by hedges of hawthorn bushes. Tish told Abby the hedges themselves might be several hundred years old, some even older. Hadn’t anybody ever thought to move them, to change them, to build something new in the fields?
Progress didn’t seem to have touched this part of the country. The houses were small and built of stone or brick or stucco. No vinyl siding anywhere, no clapboards, she noticed, but didn’t say anything about that. She’d been very careful not to seem negative about anything. The list, after all.
Every once in a while Tish would point out a cottage with a thatched roof. When Abby exclaimed over the quaintness of the straw, Tish told her about the drawbacks—of the mice and birds and small animals that might make their homes in such a roof and how any one of them might come crashing through the thatch onto an unsuspecting person below.
“That’s why beds had canopies,” the younger woman said.
Abby shuddered.
This never came up in any history class.
“We’re coming into Bath,” Tish informed her.
Abby squirmed impatiently in the seat and took in the Palladian architecture, the royal crescent, the whole guided tour. She couldn’t wait to get out and walk around. Tish really knew her stuff.
Abby’s imagination soared. Jane Austen had probably walked on the very cobbles they stood on now. All sorts of famous people had taken the waters at Bath, from the ancient Romans to scientists and writers and statesmen. Aged black metal plaques adorned houses in which noteworthy people had once lived. Names familiar to Abby from books.
She loved it.
She loved the tour of the Roman baths, enjoyed the lunch in the Pump Room, but thought the healthful water tasted disgusting.
More shops full of things she couldn’t buy. Topping it off, today was Easter Sunday. No one in the busy town seemed to take notice of it. Was it just another day? Apparently so. There weren’t even chocolate bunnies or colored eggs in shop windows. Not like back home at all.
Abby continued to enjoy herself, though, hoping God wouldn’t mind that she was on vacation.
On the way home, Abby sat quietly on the wrong side of the car. Wrong in that Tish was driving, sitting where the passenger would have been sitting had they been in America. Would she be able to drive on the opposite side of the car on the opposite side of the road? Tish was doing a good job. She was on vacation. Why strain her brain?
So she settled back and mused about the sights she had seen: the elegant architecture of Bath and the throngs of people celebrating the day off from work. She also thought that she’d like to take a wet rag to all the old buildings and clean them up a bit. They were all filthy with centuries of soot and grime.
I can just imagine what Grandma would say if she saw these wonderful palaces covered with black dirt, she thought. She could picture the old lady pouring Spic & Span into a bucket and tackling the baths first. The image that evoked made her laugh out loud.
“What’s got you laughing, Abby?”
Turning her head to face the driver, Abby shrugged.
“My grandmother would have a fit that the buildings aren’t sparkling clean.”
“Noticed that, did you?” Tish frowned. “Some of the buildings in the city are four hundred years old. Some older. They’ve survived the Industrial Revolution and two world wars. They’ve withstood centuries of air pollution. I fear that if someone were to really clean the dirt from the stone, the stone would wash away with it.”
Abby understood. “It’s never simple, restoring things. I’ve seen people spend years working on an oil painting. I can’t imagine what it would be like to try to clean an entire building.”
“Even the grit on the most precious structures is a part of history,” Tish added.
Abby wondered whether she might have hurt the woman’s feelings, but after some thought, she realized that it was pride in Tish’s voice, not offense.
“You know, Tish,” she added, “I’ve lived in the suburbs around New York City all my life. There are some old buildings, a few that are maybe two…three hundred years old. But they’re not old, not really. Not when compared with what you have here. Have you ever felt the history? Have you ever